


Gentle Hand, A

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Nonconsensual sex. Set during *Anasazi*.





	Gentle Hand, A

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

A Gentle Hand by Cathy Lee

17-Nov-97  
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters... you know the rest. Here's a little nastiness for ya. Nonconsensual M/K. Set during Anasazi. They said it couldn't be done.) NC-17; no kids, no prudes.   
Many thanks to Maria, B2 and especially Melanie for reading and offering comments on this story.  
   
Gossamer: no.   
Please post to AXTC on Dec.7.  
MKRA: Abso-diddlely-lutly. (After Dec. 7)   
Slash Hall of Shame: Why the hell not?

* * *

A Gentle Hand  
by cathy lee ()

I walk up the four flights of stairs to apartment forty-two, quietly, so not to disturb any of the neighbors. He's been home for hours, ever since he was ordered out of the Hoover building earlier in the day when he went off his head and tried to deck the Assistant Director in the corridor. Why in the hell my bosses would want to do this to Mulder I can't imagine. There are many far more effective ways to discredit an enemy than to haphazardly bring about a drug-induced psychosis by contaminating an entire building's water supply. I move quickly and quietly down the corridor but at the same time I try to feign confidence like I belong here. After the shooting yesterday the police were crawling all over the place, I can't risk being stopped and questioned. That fiasco made my bosses realize how scattershot their original plan was. Instead they had me dose up the water directly underneath Mulder's sink. Now I need to check up on him, to see how well the drugs are getting to him.

Normally by this time in the evening Mulder is eating his dinner, watching a porn vid, or going over a case file. I should know; I watched him enough times when it was my assignment to keep tabs on him. I stop outside his apartment to listen through the door at number 42. The VCR isn't running, all I hear is silence coming from inside. When I listen more closely, I think I hear something like a quiet sob. Leaning against the door and notice that it isn't even fully closed. Slowly, I turn the knob and push it open.

It's dark in here. The only light is a yellow glow coming from the bathroom dimly illuminating the apartment. Mulder's awake, hunched over on the couch, yet he doesn't seem to notice when I stealthily come through the doorway. I've never seen him so whacked out before, but plainly its not from alcohol. He's listless and agitated. Without warning his head snaps back as if startled by something horrible. But even as his eyes pass over me, he doesn't see me at all. He's clearly under the influence of any one of the four different hallucinogens that I infused directly into his water filter right after he left for work in the morning.

"Mulder?" Cautiously I try to get his attention. I think he's vaguely aware that someone is in the apartment with him but he doesn't seem to recognize me or my voice. When I move closer I notice that his shirt is off, his shoes are gone. He's rubbing his palm over his chest, obviously distressed that his pattern of breathing has changed. He's got a disturbing grin or a grimace on his face, I can't really tell which. It's only a muscle reaction to the trace amounts of cyanide in the acid, but knowing this doesn't make the imitation smile curling his lips any less unsettling. "Mulder," I say his name a little more loudly. Finally he looks directly at me.

"Krycek!" he answers. There's an anger in his voice and confusion as well. I can't tell whether he's sure if I'm really here or not. I walk closer until I'm practically standing over him. I hear his shallow gasping breath and can feel the panicked heat radiating from his body. The terror in his eyes is incongruous to his languorous beauty giving him a kind of tragic wildness like a caged animal.

"Mulder, I'm not here to hurt you. You're not well, I'm here to help you." I notice a momentary relief from the panic on his face and strangely, I think he believes me. The way he keeps licking his lips and rolling them together to the point of distraction indicates to me an extreme thirst. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice an overturned bottle of aspirin and an almost-empty water glass on the coffee table. "Mulder how many glasses of water have you had?"

"At least four. I'm so thirsty." He sounds like he's pleading for help.

If my estimates of parts per million acid to water as infused through the filter are correct, Mulder's probably orbiting Saturn about now. I'm guessing he's had enough of the stuff to make a small group of deadheads very happy. I laugh to myself. I wouldn't doubt that he's having some pretty substantial hallucinations. But at least he seems coherent enough to respond to me.

He tries to lay down on the couch but suddenly sits up again. None of his movements have any apparent purpose. I think my presence is the least of his worries. He's suffering way too much and I feel slightly compelled to comfort him since I'm somewhat to blame. My bosses should never have made me do this. If Scully or anyone else were to find him like this they'd immediately give him a blood test for pharmacologicals and this whole harebrained plan will be blow apart. No, I decide, the best thing to do is to remove as much of the evidence as possible as quickly as possible. And dealing with him is priority number one.

"I'll go and get you something to drink. Why don't you lie down in the bedroom Mulder?" I extend my hand to pull him up off the couch. At the same time he reaches for me. But his hand misses mine. The distress in his eyes at the movement of his own hand through the air is palpable. It reminds me of an old Charlie Chaplin routine and I smile. As he stares at the path of his hand in terror, I'm able catch his fingers in my own. I hold him steady while pulling him up. "Mulder you're seeing trails caused by your mind's inability to process visual images as quickly as normal. It'll go away in a few hours. In case you haven't figured it out yet, you're tripping your ass off. You're totally whacked out on four different hallucinogens. But you're going to be fine in a few hours. The thing to do now is just to go with it, try and enjoy it. It can be really fun."

He doesn't acknowledge what I've told him so I don't know if he's heard a word I've said as he stands unsteadily and leans into me for support. The skin on his shoulders feels clammy as I lead him around the coffee table and walk him to the bedroom. I have to let go of him temporarily to clear away the piles of clothing, assorted magazines and papers. Then I lay him down across the mattress by folding his tense body at the joints with my palms, propelling him backwards. I suspect that he's so wired from the drugs he won't be able to sleep for hours so I decide sit with him for a while. After a few seconds on his back, he's transfixed by something taking place in the corner of the ceiling. "I'll be right back Mulder, lie still and try and concentrate on breathing evenly. If you can, try and think of pleasant things." Did I say "pleasant things?" How incredibly absurd.

I go into the kitchen to get him something to drink. There's nothing here, I saw to it this morning that he would have nothing available but water from the tap. The beers are all gone. The bottle of mineral water was replaced with ordinary tap water spiked with the acid. I look in the cupboards to see if there's anything I missed. Nothing. Not a thing. I was far too thorough. Finally, I find a dusty can of grapefruit juice way in the back of the cabinet. I pour him a glass, warm, with no ice since the ice has been spiked too. I stop by the stereo in the living room and turn on a classical music station. Something calming and just loud enough to drown out the muffled horn blasts from the street and the humming and rattling of building's plumbing. Then I return to the bedroom to see how he's doing.

He's still lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. But he's pulled his body into a fetal position and has a look of absolute terror on his face as he watches the shifting shadows from passing headlights. If he's done as much acid as I suspect then he probably thinks that something's coming after him. He's always had a pretty paranoid mind; just the kind of mind that would totally flip under these circumstances. I switch on a lamp by the night stand to dispel some of the darkness.

"Mulder, I brought you something to drink, a glass of grapefruit juice." He looks at me and then pushes himself up on his elbows. I place my hand on the back of his head, letting the silkiness of his hair caress my fingers. I begin pulling him into a sitting position by wrapping my forearm around his back. The intimacy of this gesture is exhilarating yet so anomalous with everything our relationship has ever been in the past. When he sits up I press the juice glass into his hand and help him lift it to his mouth. He's like a baby; a hundred and eighty pound, thirty-five-year-old brilliant and beautiful baby.

"Its grapefruit juice Mulder, it'll help calm you down. It acts as a natural sedative." He begins to drink the juice, taking two or three large swallows before handing it back to me. I set the juice down on the night stand.

"Just go away Krycek, leave me alone," he growls. This sudden sternness is almost comical in light of the helplessness of his situation. I'm not surprised when he lays back down and snuggles against my leg.

"I'll stay with you for a few more hours until the drugs they've poisoned you with start to go out of your system." I whisper these words quietly and lightly run my fingers over his back. Either he doesn't notice that I'm doing this or he doesn't mind. At any rate he doesn't protest when my caresses become more pronounced. I can't think of any other way to comfort someone who is obviously in the grips of a bad trip.

I watch him for several minutes. My fingers progress in a slow steady strum over his back. His breathing alternates from even and steady to ragged gasps suffused with dejected sobs. I suspect that he wants to speak but he's too terrified to push the air out of his lungs necessary to form the words. Eventually he is able to calm himself a bit. 

"I'm so afraid Krycek."

"Afraid of what Mulder?"

"That all my work is worthless. That I'll die alone and bitter." He sighs, a heavy and dejected sigh like he's facing the last year of a war that's already been lost. I smile and consider my advantage.

"That won't happen Mulder. So many people care about you. Your parents, Agent Scully... ." I punctuate my words with another brazen caress, this time over his hip. He doesn't squirm away. I'm amazed.

"Everybody hates me. Why else would they paint my apartment while I was at work?" He's so dead serious, I try not to laugh. "They know everything about me. I've just been his patsy for years, haven't I? I think I was fired today but I can't remember exactly what they said to me. Everybody's talking about me." 

I shouldn't be laughing but I find his acute paranoia absurdly hilarious. I bury my face against my arm to keep from being heard. When I'm able to keep a straight face I try again to explain what's happening to him. "You weren't fired Mulder but you need to take a few days off. You've been poisoned with LSD. Can you remember what that does to a person?" But already another wave of insanity overtakes him and doesn't answer me. Instead he rolls his eyes and grits his teeth like a madman. He violently throws his head down and buries his face against the quilt.

Such a pitiful sight; pitiful yet exquisite. I lie down next to him and hold him in my arms while he leans back against me. When his skin touches my chest he's able to stop trembling and relax into my embrace. I caress his hair cautiously. God, I can't believe my luck! Mulder is so lovely and so vulnerable in my arms. I allow my hands to travel down his stomach to the top of his waistband. "Mulder," I breath into his ear. "You'll be more comfortable if you take these jeans off. I'll help you out of them." But even as I speak these words I'm unbuttoning his fly. He doesn't protest at all when I quickly lower the zipper. 

A forbidden excitement creeps into my movements. I loved sex while tripping. It occurs to me that if I could turn his mood around I could give him that experience. Thank god he can't see my wicked grin at this thought. And like a baby bird sitting in an nest when its parents are gone, he's so defenseless...to me.

The first time I ever had sex and the first time I ever took LSD was in the basement of a suburban house when I was sixteen. My eighteen-year-old neighbor screwed me while I was out-of-my-mind on the acid he'd provided. He fucked me slowly while I laid face-down across the dilapidated couch. His movements inside me felt like the waves of the ocean were breaking though my body. I remember my orgasm shooting out of my mind and across the cushions in an explosion of electric blue diamonds. I wasn't gay then, but that time was so good. So good in fact that after years of heterosexuality I started sleeping with men just to try to get back a part of what I had that time. Mulder's skin underneath my fingertips is so smooth, so inviting. How much resistance could he possibly put up?

By hooking my thumbs inside them, I begin working the jeans downward. I've moved more closely behind him allowing him to feel my breath steadily against the back of his neck. The closeness seems to be relaxing him, but its making me achingly hard. I continue scrunching and pushing the fabric downwards. When I've progressed as far as I can in my reclined position, I jump off the bed and pull his jeans and his boxers away from his calves and over his feet. He continues to lay passively across the mattress, totally zoned out of his mind. I lay back down and resume my caresses. Only now I am touching a totally naked and gorgeous body. For several minutes I try to keep my caresses as chaste as possible by concentrating on his back and arm, but its getting hopeless as his naked body presses into me. Besides, its so much easier to stroke his thighs as this angle. His buttocks are smooth and firm, exactly as I imagined them. They're not too slender or muscular. Just the right amount of meat sitting up roundly on sculpted muscles. My hand travels over the silky hair on the back of his leg and individually I cup each buttock in my palm, lightly squeezing. I caress and then lewdly knead his ass, so soft and yielding. I'm going to lose my mind with desire.

He doesn't fend off my transgressions. Instead I hear his breathing turn to a series of short, perhaps sexual, gasps. My movements advance down his chest to his stomach. He doesn't mind that I allow my fingertips to trail lightly over his soft skin, over the broken line of hair from his chest to his genitals, back and forth. I occasionally bump into his rigid shaft, pretending not to notice that it's erect. I lower my caresses. Now my fingers are dawdling around the skin between his thighs and up to his lower abdomen. I try to avoid his cock...for now. I keep whispering to him, "It's okay Mulder." In his highly suggestible state I know he's bound to believe me eventually. Finally after several minutes of these kinds of strokes I touch him there. But only lightly, as if I'm really only trying to caress the skin underneath. He jumps back from my hand pushing his body more closely against my own. 

I'm away from him for only a second. Just long enough to find a bottle of hand lotion on the night stand. I lay back down behind him and hold him in my arms again and grasp his cock, slowly and lightly pulling it through my fist. I run my fingers between his testicles and palm them gingerly. I resume the easy long caresses over his body, up and down the entire length of his leg, across his chest, his nipples. I want so badly to kiss him, but a kiss would be an acknowledgment that this is really happening. Instead I content myself by pressing my opened lips against the back of his neck, occasionally pushing away, leaving a wet mark. It's so much like a kiss but not really a kiss. Meanwhile hands are fully committed. While I hold his large cock in my fist, my other hand has narrowed the focus of my travels between his asscheeks. I skim my fingers over his opening, up and down the full length of the crack. I notice that he's tightly griping the sheets and his eyes are wide opened. He's allowing this to happen now. He'll use the excuse of the acid later to forgive himself and to curse me. But somewhere inside his brain, not only is he fully cognizant of what is going on, he's screaming for it.

I let go of his cock just long enough to flip open the top on the lotion and grease up my fingers. I toss the plastic bottle aside and resume my caresses. My fingers slip easily between his ass cheeks now. My index finger lingers over his anus and I allow just the tip to poke inside. And then out, and then in again, a little deeper the second time. He's tight. It's going to take a long time to prepare him. My cock twitches and weeps in anticipation at the delicious thought.

I continue stroking him in my tight fist smearing the pre-ejaculate over the entire shaft. He groans in protest but the slow rocking of his hip betrays him. He pushes back over my index finger which is suddenly buried all the way into his gripping heat and he moans. I allow my finger to probe inside of him, caressing the slick interior of his rectum, massaging his prostate. Quickly I withdraw and strip out of my own clothing which I toss heedlessly to the floor. Then I lay back down next to him and hold him tight. I catch a scrap of a whimper escaping from his throat and remember the panic he must be fighting fiercely to suppress.

"It going to be all right Mulder, I'm with you now. I'm going to hold you and touch you and make you feel good." This is as close as I'll come to revealing my intention to fuck him and he doesn't protest. Instead he wantonly pushes his ass back against my hand. I oblige him by relubing my fingers and again pressing back into him. Now he has my cock to contend with. It's hard and seeping and poking uncomfortably against the top of his thigh. I allow my finger to move in and out of him in a slow but steady rhythm. I take up the same movement with my fist over his cock. These are no longer tentative caresses but insistent sexual strokes. I want him to be so opened, so ready for me. I know he'll resist me if he feels any pain or discomfort at all. To further prepare him I add another finger to my movements inside him. I can't help it anymore, my mouth devours his neck, his ears, his hair. Those beautiful round buttocks are making me ravenous. I want so badly to shove myself into him with every inch that I have, to feel his tight muscles squeezing around me. I want to shoot my cum as far up inside of him as I can and make him scream out loud. My growing excitement causes my fingers to frantically thrust back and forth in and out quickly and impatiently, pantomiming my imagined movements inside of him. Soon three fingers are stretching him, sliding easily in and out of his hot slippery channel.

I'm not sure if he's really ready but I'm too impatient to wait. I position my lubricated cock over him and I push forward, just a little and then withdraw. Mulder lets out a pained moan mingled in broken breaths. 

"Are you okay?" I ask but I immediately wish I hadn't. I don't want to give him any opportunity to back down. I'm guessing that part of his mind is recoiling in horror even though his body is so obviously craving this. He doesn't answer and I push down again; a little further and little harder this time. The tightness and the heat enveloping me is unreal. It's all I can do to keep from grinding inward, mindless of his screams as I totally possess his body. The head of my cock pops fully inside him and he lets out another little cry of panic and pain. "Mulder, its okay," I say again for the hundredth time. I caress his chest and lightly kiss the back of his neck again.

He's gasping trying to say something but he's too terrified to speak. Finally in a panicked rush he's able to get the words out, "Krycek, please stop it, get off of me it hurts." 

Oh no, I can't bear to pull out now. I rest inside of him and wrap my arms around him in reassurance. 

"Stop it Krycek! Get the hell away from me." 

But even as he's saying this I'm already sliding further down into his sucking heat. He cries out in agony. I run my palms and fingers up his sinewy arms and grasp his wrists firmly, holding them down as I begin thrusting.

"Its okay Mulder," I quietly gasp. "I'm moving slowly in and out of you. You need to concentrate on relaxing."

"Get off of me Krycek!" He begins thrashing, trying to throw my body away from his. Because of the pain of my entry he's lucid now, and panicked. An arm escapes my grasp and smacks me in the face. I grab it again, gripping the wrist tightly, and deliberately roll him onto him stomach crushing his hands underneath his torso in an attempt to still him. He moans and bucks underneath me so I unmercifully ram down into him; much rougher than I normally would have. The fight he's putting up is perversely exhilarating.

"It's okay Mulder I want to make you relax to make you feel g-g-good..." He thrashes wildly underneath me and cries in agony. With one hand splayed against the back of his head I shove his face down into the pillow so I don't have to hear his screams and I begin plowing him. My muscular thighs press down against the backs of his more slender ones, rolling over them to hold him motionless. Finally when I'm able to effectively pin him down, I take my pleasure. I piston in and out of his body, more vigorously and more deeply than I ever imagined possible before I was compelled to use force to get him to submit.

He lets out a low despairing cry. He's given up. But his own enjoyment betrays him, I can feel it in the counter-rhythm of his hips. I roll him on his side again and reach around to grab his cock. He moans a humiliated moan as I pump it inside my palm. "Just let yourself enjoy it Mulder." I'm jerking him off in time to my own movements inside his ass. "Give it up...give me your cum. I want it," I hiss into his ear. That's all he needs to hear and he's cumming. My fingers become slick with his cool essence. I continue to pump as he twitches out the last of his pleasure. The slick fluid lies congealing over my palm, the bed, his abdomen. When he finishes I smear it across his chest.

I keep thrusting but my own orgasm eludes me. I ram harder into his ass, but nothing happens. I almost think I'm starting to go soft, as if all of a sudden I've lost any interest in sex. I try shifting my hips for a better angle but still, nothing. Mulder lies limply, whimpering underneath me. He's totally broken. After a few more minutes of banging fruitlessly I pull out of him and push him away, sickened and disgusted with myself. I roll to the over side of the bed and lube up my palm with the lotion. I try masturbating, pumping my hands over my shaft with the quickest most efficient movements I know. But still I'm unable to bring myself off. My cock begins to soften like a wilting vegetable. 

I'm angry at Mulder, for god knows what reason. I was responsible for everything that happened this night but the sight of him makes me nauseated. He's turned away from me, curled up on the bed whimpering in his pain and shame. And god knows what else is going through his acid-baked mind.

I'm flaccid now. My cock went down quickly. When I get up from the bed to get away from him, I pick up the opened bottle of lotion and hurl it at him as hard as I can. It strikes him on the hip and white creams quirts out across the coverlet. He yelps pitifully but won't look at me.

"Mulder, you're going to be okay." I state this flatly with no intonation of reassurance as I gather my clothes from the floor. I pull them over my body as quickly as possible, no longer the least bit interested in staying to console him. Without looking back I pull my boots back on and exit the bedroom.

In the kitchen I remove the water filter from underneath the sink, throwing it into a plastic bag to carry out with me. Then I dump out all the contaminated liquids and ice. I have no permission to do this, but I don't give a fuck anymore. Not only is their strategy pointless, its risky and it plainly won't work. To cover my ass I tell myself I'll use the time-honored tactic of denial if the old man ever suspects I had anything to do with the filter's removal. 

Before I walk out of the apartment I stop outside Mulder's bedroom door, the door that remained opened the whole time he and I were in there together. Above my head is a household-type smoke alarm. The green glowing light means it's fully charged and working. But its not detecting any smoke. I should know, I installed it myself a year and a half earlier on the behest of my boss so he would be able to hear everything going on in this apartment. "Goodnight," I say aloud -but not to Mulder- and then I get the hell out. 

Oct., 13 1997.


End file.
